Addiction
by RogueMoon
Summary: Post Trial: Gambit leaves the X-Men and because of his growing depression, he turns to heroin to ease his pain. The drugs take Remy further from grace... and nearly kill him. Collaboration with Nicole Wagner. Posted with Permission.


**Disclaimer:** Neither Nicole Wagner or RogueMoon own the X-Men or make money from this.

**Addiction**

A X-Men Fanfiction

Originally Written By Nicole Wagner in 2005

Revised by RogueMoon in 2009

Posted With Permission

* * *

**Authors Note | Nicole Wagner: The Deadly Gambit**

Rating: PG-13/R

Content: Drug abuse, rape, prostitution, language, violence

Dedicated to the many people I met at Four Winds in New York. They inspired and encouraged me to continue this story, though it brought back harsh memories for many. I also dedicate this story to my best buds BJ, Juke Box, Dee, W6C and Espirt. I love you guys! Huggles!

* * *

The Present

The man, boy, all too thin cast off of society, lay against the metal and brick exterior of a building held together more by the spray paint from years of gang tagging than the nails and mortar that shook out every so often from the rattle of the wind. His stringy, unwashed hair long and uncut, laying in limp brown strands over his shoulders and unshaven face. A black shirt, more a patchwork of thread than a sheet of woven cloth, hung off his bony shoulders and only a pair of ripped jeans stiff with dirt gave him any sense of modesty.

His eyes, once so full of life, gazed without focus at his forearms. Dull red irises encased in a field of black looked out of a pallid face, the skin around them darkened with a glow that would have been healthy had it not come from tears he couldn't remember crying. All he could do was look at the bruises and track marks that stood out like ink stains against his pale, sweaty skin.

A vague pondering of when his life had gone so wrong passed through his clouded mind for a fleeting moment of lucidity. Gone when his eyes found a clean spot on his right arm to stick the needle.

**::: :::**

The Past

Glass and wood splintered, shattered around him, dug into his back as he fell out of the window, body buffeted by the beating of wings. Feathers shouldn't hurt so much. They should be soft and comforting, not the dangerous weapon that left dozens of tiny cuts along his arms and legs where the skin was exposed.

He collapsed on the concrete patio below the second story window he had been pushed through. He thought he heard a crack as his head hit, covered by one arm, the other holding tightly to his duffel bag. He had the right to take his things back, he shouldn't have to deal with this.

The heavy flap of wings far larger than nature should ever have intended sounded in his ears. A snap and he could practically feel the body of Archangel barreling toward him. He rolled at the last second, a fierce grin of angry satisfaction when he heard the crunch of a bone breaking and the curse leaving the blond millionaire's lips.

He was on his feet, running, before any of the others decided to finish what the bird man started. Remy hadn't wanted to get into a fight, had purposely snuck in to avoid meeting up with anyone. He just wanted his to get his things and get out. Wasn't even going to try and reclaim his bike.

They were behind him, feet pounding, screams of hate and curses for him daring to return every bit as painful as the glass in his back. He set his jaw and ignored the burning even as his duffel bag was flipped over his shoulder and bouncing against those same shards, pounding them as surely as a hammer on a nail.

He swallowed his tears as he realized that Rogue wasn't with them. Her voice wasn't among the others. He jumped the fence and glanced back. She wasn't anywhere in sight. She didn't even care enough to be angry at him.

**::: :::**

Remy returned to Louisiana, his home. New Orleans was a ghost town after Katrina, but he still loved it, still needed to be there. He took up residence at a small hotel near the edge of the French Quarter, just inside the slums that were forming in the wake of the hurricane. Close enough to the haunts of the Thieves Guild to occasionally catch a glimpse of his family and wistfully fantasize about returning to them and they accepting him with open arms.

Fantasies that were quickly chased away by reality, by the knowing gazes he caught from some of them. He was still in exile, couldn't officially return without causing more problems between them and the Assassins. And with New Orleans still recovering from Katrina, that would be nothing more than selfishness.

So he spent his days in small casinos and mafia back rooms, playing poker to pass the time. Winning and never taking anything more than the cash he came with when he left. He didn't need it, he had plenty of money. Gaining 'friends' from those who liked to make themselves feel better by hanging around people who actually had a life.

His nights were spent in bars and dance halls, booze and loose women a fixture. That's where he met them. His salvation, his downfall. His dealers and eventual pimps. They offered him the first hit in the bathroom. Said it looked like he needed something stronger than alcohol and thought it would help take the edge off. They were right.

That first hit was a blissful oblivion. Nothing and no one could reach him. His near constant torment of memories disappeared from his mind and he just floated in the warm liquid coursing through his veins. Guilt didn't matter there. The accusing faces of the Morlocks as they lay dead, gutted and drowning in their own blood and the sewage of thousands relaxed and laughed with him. The X-Men stopped cursing him, smiled and joined him in the clouds and spinning colors.

**::: :::**

They found him a few days later and offered him some more, if he wanted it. He bought the drinks that night, hiding with them in the darkest booth they could find. They showed him how to shoot it up properly, where to hit the vein for the best effect. The pounding music and flashing lights swirled around him and he didn't even care that he had no money in his pockets when he was brought back to reality by the proprietor telling him it was time to get out, club was closing.

Remy found an address where his cash had been. And a price next to it. He crumpled the paper up and shoved it back in his pocket grumbling to himself. He wasn't upset his money was gone, he was upset they expected him to pay so much. It wasn't like he needed what they were offering.

Another few days passed and he decided to take home his winnings from the back room games. He paced his hotel room that night. Not going out. Was feeling too jittery and the memories were hounding him. Pounding at him, a fierce, unforgiving howl of screams and curses. He finished off three bottles of tequila trying to silence them.

The next day, when his head stopped pounding and he could stand the sounds of the streets enough not to wince at every little noise, he was at the address. They were smiling at him, clapping him on the back and telling him to come in, make himself at home. The needle was waiting for him. His money was theirs and he found his escape once again.

A week later he was living with them. No longer wasting his money paying rent at the seedy little hotel. The cash better spent on searching for the peace at the end of a needle. They were more than happy to have him there, where he could get the first hit of each shipment. The last hit, too.

Within a month they had convinced him to give them access to his bank accounts. He wouldn't have to worry about fronting the cash every time that way. He could come and go as he pleased, take a hit whenever he wanted. Not have to deal with getting to an ATM at three in the morning just because he needed a fix and they had to uphold their policy of cash up front otherwise.

Remy was as broke as the day he was born only five months later. The cost of dealing had gone up, they said. He was renting a the room, too, they said. Getting past customs was expensive, they said. He still had to pay, they said.

He went to the mafia back rooms again, worked the tables at casinos. The winnings went to his roommates, his dealers. He got sloppy when he was sober, but he was worse when he was high. He didn't feel like he could function with the bliss inside him and when the back rooms and casinos closed their doors to him, he fell back on stealing.

Picking pockets and robbing houses, pawning what he could. Getting his fix. That didn't last much longer than the poker games had. His reflexes had dulled, he couldn't control the charge unless he was high, too nervous and pulled in too many directions when his emotions weren't drowning in the drug. Almost got himself killed, arrested.

His friends got mad at him. He couldn't bring in the cash consistently anymore. They let him have a tab, were generous with him and his excuses. But the times between settling the bill lengthened. Their boss wasn't willing to turn a blind eye to this much longer.

They told him they could arrange for a regular job, with his wages going to keeping his tab in check. Remy was wary about this. He wasn't going to kill anyone, not even for the escape he so desperately needed. He'd caused too much death already.

They told him there were plenty of people in the city that would pay for his fix if they could get their hands on his body. A mutant as pretty as him would go for a lot of money.

Remy had a clear enough mind to refuse. He wouldn't lower himself to prostitution, not even when high. They told him that was fine. They'd need his bill settled immediately. He didn't have the money and they knew it.

He tried to run. Tried to fight. He was easily overpowered, body too ravaged by the drugs, mind too addled by the lack of them. That same night, Remy woke to find himself tied to a bed, a customer already inside him.

One of the dealers was there, waiting for him to wake up. Waiting for him to try and charge something, to try and escape. The needle drilled into his leg and heroin killed the pain. He stopped struggling when he got his fix, not even noticing when the customers changed. He was too high, to blissfully unaware of anything to care.

The next night he didn't fight them. He lay in the bed and did what the customer asked him to. Let them hurt him, let them use him. He would get his hit at the end of the night and forget all about it. Escape into the heat coursing through his veins.

**::: :::**

He realized he had hit rock bottom two months later when he was sucking off a John in a random ally somewhere at the edge of the slums, just near the French Quarter. He didn't know who the man was, only that he had handed over two hundred dollars for a blow job while his friends watched, took pictures from half a dozen angles, made sure to get his eyes. Flashed another hundred before he came for Remy to swallow. He took the cash.

The group of men laughed at him and pushed him against the brick wall. Laughed as he landed in someone else's shit and grinned up at them, clutching the money to his chest. Laughed as they grabbed his head and made him look at them, really look at them. More pictures were taken, of his grin, his unfocused eyes and the money he held onto for dear life.

Assassins.

The sight made little sense to him at first. He stood up after they left him there, didn't bother to clean himself off as he staggered back to his pimps with the money. He replayed the scene in his head, trying to clear out the confusion that came without the heroin to keep him whole.

He realized he knew the faces of the men. They were Julien's friends, his cousins, his family. And they had filmed it, taken pictures.

He threw up in the gutter, receiving curses and sneers and looks of disgust from the people passing him. Just another worthless druggie. He didn't go back to his dealers. He crawled into the bathroom of a rundown bus station. Cried and screamed and beat himself when the cravings hit.

**::: :::**

The Present

He shivered as he pulled the needle out of his pocket, the brisk spring air as cold to his thin frame as a Montana snowfall. It was going to be his last hit, he promised himself that. He just needed one more. One more to warm himself up. One more so he could stand and find the guy who stole his shoes the night before, take them back. One more so he walk to the bus station and buy another ticket to nowhere.

The needle slid into the vein so easily. His eyes rolled back into his head. It had been so long since he felt the bliss. A week he had denied himself while he ran. His body convulsed and the pleasure was interrupted with a tearing pain as his stomach emptied onto the grimy concrete. A pounding pressure hammered inside his head and his lungs burned as the tried to breath. It was like he was drowning, the very air a poison. Darkness consumed him as his body toppled over, splashing his own vomit over his face and chest.

**::: :::**

Remy walked through the darkness. Dark because there was nothing to see. Nothing existed in the darkness but him. Maybe this was Hell. It felt like it was. Being alone scared him and Hell was where the bad souls went to be tortured with their own fears. He didn't know how long he wandered that darkness, it felt like an eternity.

The darkness began to fade, flickers of color, whispers of sound. The French Quarter forming around him as he kept walking. The beautiful lines of buildings more than a century old stretching up around him. Brightly colored in the vibrant shades of crayons, shimmering like a filmed picture of a child's drawing. The sun shining down with a smiling face the simple black dots for eyes and curved line of the grin making him happy.

Other things lurked in the dazzling world of animation. Things that seemed more real, more frightening. Things he couldn't understand anymore. Faces and words that confused and scared him and he didn't know why.

The world he skipped through faded from him as the darkness had. Replaced with lights too bright to look at, a throat that ached and a body that wouldn't move right. He heard a something, a low keening noise and a beeping that increased in speed. He coughed, pain lacing the dry expanse of his wind pipe.

He tried opening his eyes again. The light only slightly less painful when he lifted his head to look in a more downward direction. Lifting his head hurt, was tiring. All he could see were tubes and wires sticking into his body, a white blanket covering him from the waist down. Needles in his arms. He didn't like the needles for some reason. They didn't hurt, but they scared him.

He whimpered as a nurse walked into the room. He recognized her as nurse. She was wearing that pretty white cap with a red 't' on it the nurses in cartoons wore. She was pretty and she was smiling at him. He hoped she would take the needles out and make the pain go away.

Men and women dressed in white coats came to see him soon after the nurse did. He heard them talking, saw their mouths moved, but he couldn't understand all the words. Some of them were really big. His lips trembled as he tried to talk to them, but his mouth didn't want to open, didn't want to form the words.

He started to whimper and cry. He was scared now and just wanted to go home. He couldn't remember where home was. Tears drained down his cheeks and he hiccuped. The doctors quieted as pretty nurse came over and smiled at him. She seemed nice and he smiled back.

One of the doctors came over and looked at him, smiling like the pretty nurse. He spoke slowly, small words he could understand, "Mister LeBeau... My name is Doctor Levon. You've been asleep for a long time. You're at Charity Hospital in New Orleans. Do you understand?"

Remy nodded.

The Doctor's smile widened, "Good. You were hurt very badly, but you're okay now. We're going to keep helping you and you're going to get better."

Remy felt safe, the fear going away. The doctors and pretty nurse were going to help him.

**::: :::**

Soon after he woke up from his really long nap his father had come to see him. Jean-Luc. The man looked older than he remembered, but he was told that was only cause he had slept so long. He accepted the explanation and wondered why his father looked so upset.

Jean-Luc came to see him every week on Fridays. He brought coloring books and stuffed animals and big trucks for Remy to play with. Remy was happy when his father came to see him, sad when he left. But he knew he had to stay at the hospital.

He had been in some sort of accident. That's why he had been asleep for so long. And he had to do a lot of exercise to get better, so he could walk on his own and run and play and do all the things a boy his age was supposed to be doing. He liked to draw and the nurses gave him lots of paper to draw on with his big box of crayons if he didn't complain about the exercise the made him do. All the pretty nurses would come visit him if he was a good boy.

A year and a half passed before he was told he would get to go home. But his father said that home wasn't with him. It was at a place called Clover House, in Baton Rouge. Jean-Luc would still visit him, but only once a month. His father was a busy man and had a job that would keep him away. But he promised to visit on the first day of every month, no matter what. He was told he was going to be given a job too.

Remy was going to miss all the friends he had made at Charity Hospital. The other kids who lived in something called the terminal ward. All the pretty nurses and nice doctors gave him presents. Clothes and toys and two suit cases to pack them in. They threw him a party. One with a big cake and lots of balloons.

The day after he was dressed in a nice new suit, the only new clothes he had – the rest being second hand from the salvation army or other charities – and waiting in the lobby for the representative of Clover House. She was a nun, dressed in black and white like nuns should be. She greeted him with a kind smile and he hugged her, happy to make a new friend.

She laughed at that and pushed him away after a few moments, "Well hello! You must be Remy. My name is Sister Mary Jean."

"Bonjour Seour Mary Jean," He replied, puffing his chest up in pride. He was often told how smart he was for being able to speak both French and English.

She laughed again and took one of his suitcases, leading him out the door, "You're going to make lots of friends at Clover House, a nice boy like you, lots of people just like you. You'll have your own room and everything."

He bit his lip as he sat down in the passenger seat and buckled up properly. He was going to a place with people just like him... why did that sound so familiar? And why did make him nervous to hear that?

Sister Mary Jean smoothed his hair back after getting behind the wheel, noticing his look, "Don't worry, Remy. You'll like it at Clover House, I promise."

The van came to life and the next big journey of Remy's life began.

**::: :::**

The Beginning

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